


Alone at a table for two

by Bluespirit



Series: Wurlitzer Universe [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-18
Updated: 2007-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluespirit/pseuds/Bluespirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney's lost Atlantis - and he's lost John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone at a table for two

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to my two wonderful betas, [](http://xanthelj.livejournal.com/profile)[**xanthelj**](http://xanthelj.livejournal.com/) & [](http://lantean-drift.livejournal.com/profile)[**lantean_drift**](http://lantean-drift.livejournal.com/) for all of their help.  
>  Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction & is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

He didn’t come here every night because _they_ used to come here. It wasn’t because of maudlin sentimentality or desperation to cling to some shred of what he’d lost. No, it was nothing like that. Absolutely nothing like that… at all. He was just here because the beer was good and the steak was even better. That was the only reason and it was pure coincidence that this happened to be the very same bar he and John had always hung out at when they were back on Earth.

Well, they were all back on Earth now - for good - thanks to the overwhelming generosity of the Ancients. _‘Hey, thanks for rescuing us from the interminable void between galaxies but we’d like our city back now and you have 48 hours to leave. ‘Kay? Thanks. Bye!’_

Rodney snorted into his beer.

Just like that he’d lost Atlantis - and he’d lost John. He couldn’t even blame John, much as he’d like to. He could still see the pain behind John’s eyes as he’d haltingly tried to explain - _Landry, closer scrutiny on Earth, threat to his career_ \- and he’d understood, he really had. He’d known that they’d had it easy on Atlantis, far enough away from the prying eyes of Stargate Command and the United States’ draconian military code to give them a chance to be together. It was different at Cheyenne Mountain though - too many curious stares, too many people eager to ask and then tell, just waiting for them - for John - to put a foot wrong. No, he hadn’t been able to blame John, even as he’d wanted to rage against the unfairness of it all and demand that John choose _him_ , goddamn it, and put him above his job. But that was crazy - and he was far from that. He knew that he’d been lucky to have had John at all; had known all along that it wouldn’t - couldn’t - last.

He closed his eyes for a moment at the memory of John walking away from him, back stiff and more painfully eloquent than any faltering words.

Rodney swallowed another mouthful of beer and nodded to himself. He’d take the position he’d been offered at Area 51. He wasn’t masochist enough to stay and have to pass John by in the corridor every day, with nothing more than a nod between colleagues. He couldn’t see John and act like he didn’t remember the soft touch of his lips or the hot pant of his breath against his skin. But he was still masochist enough to keep coming to this damn bar and wallowing, of course. Though he was proud that he’d allowed himself just a little dignity - he’d steadfastly refused to give in to the one final act that would completely turn his life into some tear-stained biopic worthy of the Hallmark channel.

He was resolutely steering clear of the jukebox.

It had been their little ritual; every time they’d come here, Rodney had grabbed the same booth in the back and John had ambled over and fed quarters into that damn old Wurlitzer. It had been the same steel guitar-twanging, gravel-voiced ballad bemoaning the same ‘done me wrong’ sentiment every time and John’s grin would just get lazier and sexier the more that Rodney rolled his eyes and huffed about the correlation between country music and diminishing brain cells. It had been a joke, so well worn that it wasn’t even really funny anymore but they laughed anyway, because it was them, it was what they did.

So Rodney hadn’t played the jukebox. He knew that he couldn’t hear that song and not have John here to roll his eyes at, not have John’s smile to melt at. No, despite coming here alone every night and wallowing, he had enough self-preservation to avoid the last straw that he knew would finally break him.

He finished his drink and glanced at his watch - it was later than he’d realised and definitely time to leave. He dropped a few bills on the table and began to gather the detritus of his evening. He was just stuffing the latest issue of _The Astrophysical Journal_ into the already over-full pocket of his laptop case when he heard the familiar wheezing whir and click of the jukebox starting up. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a second as instantly recognisable chords spilled out across the bar, familiar rasping lyrics threatening his hard won composure. Typical! Of course it had to be this song - his orgy of self-pity obviously wasn’t complete without some imbecile underscoring it all with Johnny-fucking-Cash! He needed to leave, he wasn’t going to fall apart in the middle of ‘Red’s Bar and Grill’ for god’s sake. And not because of a song, a _country_ song at that!

“Hey, Rodney.” The voice was soft and achingly familiar, and so close that Rodney jumped in surprise. He looked up to see John standing at the edge of the booth, a strangely wistful twist to his mouth but the stiffness of his shoulders shouting out a world of uncertainty.

“I, um… you?” Rodney swallowed and tried again, desperately trying to marshal thoughts and words into some kind of coherency. This wasn’t something he’d anticipated at all. “I mean, what are you doing here? I was just leaving, you can stay, I’ll go….” He ground abruptly to a halt, struck by a sudden thought. “Hey! Why did you put our song on the jukebox?”

John raised an eyebrow and seemed to be fighting a small grin. The action was so patently and intimately ‘John’ that Rodney felt it like a kick to the gut. “ _Our_ song?” John said mildly. “You always gave me hell every time I played it.”

“Well, yes… maybe,” Rodney stuttered. “Stop trying to change the subject. Why are you here?” He could hear the plaintiveness of his tone.

John’s eyes dropped and the smile slid from his face, his body taut with unspoken, possibly unspeakable words. Some things didn’t change.

“Oh, for god’s sake, sit down,” Rodney muttered and couldn’t help smiling just a little as John sat next to him - not touching but still next to him. It was juvenile and sappy and Rodney couldn’t bring himself to care - he’d missed John so damn much. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?” he asked again. Things really were bad when _he_ was the emotionally articulate one.

“Rodney, I… I… wanted to say,” John began, angling his body towards Rodney a little more. “I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do what?” Talk to him? Then why the hell had John come here? Of course, he couldn’t have known that Rodney would be here. But then why hadn’t he just left when he’d seen him?

“I don’t want to be alone,” John breathed, words slicing through Rodney’s train of thought like a knife.

He felt his gut twist at the aching echo of John’s weariness. “But what about Landry? And ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’? What about your career?”

“I don’t care, Rodney! I can’t choose that,” John paused and his eyes met Rodney’s, suddenly bright with intensity. “I can’t choose that over you.”

Rodney exhaled sharply. “You mean, you…?”

John smiled tentatively, hopefully. “Yeah, I do… if _you_?”

Rodney nodded frantically, mirroring the smile slowly warming John’s face. “Yes! Yes! Definitely! Absolutely!” He paused. “But your job?”

John squared his shoulders. “We’ll be careful but if it comes down to it, then I want you, Rodney. Just you.”

Rodney felt a long-absent warmth spreading through him, as weeks of numbing loneliness began to melt away. “Me too. I mean, _you_ , I want you… just you,” Rodney nodded and John’s smile was blinding, his face so open that Rodney felt he was seeing into forever.

“How about we take this back to your place?” John suggested, the sudden heat of his stare making Rodney flush. That was definitely a good idea; they’d always been so much better with actions - sweat-slicked, sex-smeared actions - than words.

“And I thought I was the genius,” Rodney laughed, unable to contain the honest to god delight bubbling through him because, wow, this was really happening - John had chosen _him_.

“Hey - could’ve been in Mensa,” John smiled softly, rubbing his knuckle across the back of Rodney’s wrist.

  
The mechanism of the old Wurlitzer rumbled and clicked into place, a new song beginning as Rodney and John left the bar.

  
The end

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from ‘Wurlitzer Prize (I Don't Want to Get Over You)’ by Waylon Jennings


End file.
